The Harem on the Hill (Part LXXVIII) (Patreon)

Poor Bernadette never had a chance.  She was already strapped down and hooked up.  All Tina had to do was crank the machine to eleven and wait.

Of course, she didn't wait.  She knew your invention worked and, as its inaugural guinea pig, knew exactly what to do to ensure her accomplice would never divulge her secrets to you or anyone else.

A review of the machine's electronic log shows Bernadette's been dead for twenty minutes.  About the time it took to negotiate the jimmied front gate.  In truth, by delaying your arrival Tina probably spared you the anguish she caused Bernadette.  You wouldn't have been able to save her and, by the record of her vitals, her final few minutes were excruciating.

Not that you need a computer to tell you that.  The horrified expression frozen on Bernadette's ice-blue face, as well as the fluids secreting from her skin and orifices (nose, mouth, ears, and even her eyes), are more than enough to show it wasn't a pleasant way to go.  When you entered the chamber, you thought she still had a pulse--until you realized that the steady beat you were hearing was merely the drip-drip-drip of the orange-tinged ooze onto the stone floor.

Clean-up is a bitch.  Bernadette is more than a hundred pounds heavier than she was when you left her, and the gelatinous secretions make her as slippery as a fish. Using them to your advantage, you slide Bernadette's bloated body across the greasy vinyl onto an adjacent gurney.  Getting the goop off the table and floor proves much more difficult.  You consider retrieving the pressure hose from the garage, but there's no drainage in the chamber (something you intend to remedy in your next round of home improvements).   You ultimately use a bucket, a mop, and several rolls of paper towels.

By the time you finish, it's midnight and you're exhausted.   You stand on your bedroom's balcony and breath deep the cool mountain air, hoping it will push the acrid odor from your nostrils, just as you hope the glass of whiskey in your hand will wash the bile taste off your tongue.  Neither work.  Seconds later, you're fertilizing the pines you planted around the perimeter of your home.  You've never been afraid to get your hands dirty, but scrubbing mud from the hubcaps of your Jag is a far cry from scouring bodily fluids from grout.  You just wished your stomach were stronger.

Or Bernadette's.

Your head droops lower over the railing.  You're going to miss her.  Fortunately, few others will.  A lack of close friends and family is one of the main reasons you singled her out years ago, and her recent appearance at the police station has effectively removed her from their radar as well.

Not that it matters much.  The secret is already out.

You gaze over the valley.  Somewhere in the darkness is a 400-pound bomb ready to explode.  And when it does, the results will be far messier than they were with Bernadette.

(Nota Bene: Out of respect to poor Bernadette, there are no choices this week, The time forward I promised will begin in the next installment.)